Aodhnait
by Dagdoth Fliesh
Summary: She did not like stubborn and impetuous Dwarves, but that did not keep her from becoming Thorin's ward in a moment of need. Perhaps she should have counted his Dwarvish jealousy and greed as well. OCxThorin
1. Five Pence

Welcome all! This is my first Tolkien fan fiction, so if you find any lore related errors, I would greatly appreciate you pointing them out to me. Aodhnait is Gaelic for "little fire," pronounced ey-nehT. There shall be a slight mixture of book/movie as far as looks and areas, and I hope I do Thorin justice with my portrayal. As always, I very much appreciate reviews and feedback, because it's a mental push to help me write! Enjoy!

Aodhnait

Aodhnait did not like Dwarves. That being said, she was not known to like anyone much in particular, so many assumed she just didn't like people at all (not all true). However, one distinct Dwarf caught her hazel gaze whenever she brought her family's goods into the market town to trade. And perhaps because of this, she liked him least of all.

He was stocky, short, yet tall for a Dwarf, with a strong looking physique from manning the forge and more intimately the fine dwarvish sword harnessed to his waist. His thick and sweat drenched black hair wisped slightly gray and braided tightly before the ears while his beard was cut short, something unheard of in Dwarves, yet framed against his broad square jaw. His face seemed oddly pleasing to Aodhnait, and dignified, yet the only look she saw on it from afar was the furrowed brows and clenched teeth as his well defined forearms swung hammer on molten ore, shaping, ever shaping. His bice blue tunic stained soot of color much as his visible skin which beaded with a sweat caused by either strenuous work or the heat of the forge, Aodhnait didn't know.

His kin called him Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain; son of Thrain, son of Thror.

Aodhnait did _not_ like this King Under the Mountain, so somewhat wished he'd go back to said mountain and_ stay_ there. Much later, perhaps, she would find out how that would happen. But for now she contented herself with the strange Dwarf and the fact he was no King to her in this village of Men.

On her fifth trip into the village that year to the blacksmith, in the beginning of spring when the winds are yet cold, the Dwarf yet worked the forge. It had been a miserable day indeed for Aodhnait, for her two older brothers fancied themselves free of the farm and therefore free of their duties, leaving their younger sister to the work, but atop this reservation their wagon had taken a dip for the worse just outside town and badly damaged a wheel, and the poor mare Bessie that pulled the cart was far too old to contend with added weight.

Aodhnait had three good sacks of leather over her back and her thick woolen breeches had a few pockets full of coin, clinking with each step of her rough leather boots. Today had been the first day she'd ever said a word to the Dwarf.

"Is Braedan in?" she'd curtly queried. She may not have liked the Dwarf, but she had common courtesy to at least ask before trying the door.

"He is out," it was also the first time she'd heard him speak, his voice accented strangely by his native tongue of Khuzdul; in his deep thick voice she could nearly hear the mountains, but his tone was just as rudely brief as hers, perhaps more so - - he hadn't even looked at her in answer, the Dwarf unrelenting in his shaping of the metal. It riled her.

"Then I shall wait 'til he returns," and with that, she let the bags fall to the ground.

Thorin, King-Without-a-Mountain looked at her then, pausing his hammer upon the anvil, and a strange fluttering struck Aodhnait's heart, akin to fear. His steel blue gaze pierced her with an arrogance comprised of self-worth and superiority, looking down his aquiline nose upon her although she stood nearly a full head taller. The dwarf gave a nod, which ended in a slight frown, rested his arms and turned to a barrel of rainwater. He had, by all rights, turned his back in dismissal as he splashed his face with water and cleaned his sweat and soot. Aodhnait grimaced in disdain at his back as her cheeks flushed, not at all pleased to be ignored. She was not his servant.

"Where has he gone?" She inquired, relieved to be seated on a bench.

"Out," the brooding Dwarf replied after a long moment, as if such a mundane question were beneath him.

"Obviously he is out, as that is the second time you have said it," she keenly watched as he wiped his hands on the rough hide apron cinched about his waist before retrieving his hammer. Tongs enveloped the hot metal and dunked into the water with a torrent of hot steam, tempering the metal. "_Why_ has he gone out?"

Thorin turned to her with a decidedly unfriendly look. "You've a bold tongue for a woman of Men." But she almost thought she saw approval in his eyes, "Braedan has gone to the inn to pay wages to my kin." The metal started glowing hot within the forges coals.

Aodhnait stared confusedly at him for a moment. "Then why are you here?" Surely he'd rather be collecting his coin?

He gazed coolly, "Why is a _woman_ of Men here?"

She spluttered indignantly. "I have every right to be at the blacksmith, just as much as you, _Master Dwarf_! If you must know, I'm delivering leather from my father." After a moments pause, in which Aodhnait bit her cheek, trying to ignore the hammering of her heart and the dwarfs infuriatingly impassive stare, she continued more maiden like. "And to purchase bearings for my wagon, the wheel has broke."

How this Dwarf, King-Under-no-Mountain, could rile her so with such simple words was beyond her. She knew of course, the women of Men and the women of Dwarves were quite different culturally indeed (not that she'd ever seen a female Dwarf, for their men hoarded them like precious ore away from watching eyes; and even if she had seen one, she might have thought it a man by the beard), their women were craftsmen, metalworkers, and often warriors, fierce as the men. Aodhnait had been raised on a farm by her father and two older brothers - - her mother having died of illness when she was young. Aodhnait, proud not to be a simpering housewife, found this bigotry irate, for she could do the labor of men just as well.

He took his hammer to the molten metal once again.

Seeing the Dwarf slightly more bemused than angered by her outburst, Aodhnait forced the color from her cheeks, and found herself no longer wanting to wait for Braedan in Thorin's disconcerting company. For although he did not concern himself with her beyond the _pleasant_ conversation his entire character had suddenly become far too interesting in her opinion, this condescending enigma that had come down from the Blue Mountains with his kin.

Nonplused at her reaction she bargained. "If you would kindly forge new bearings I will pay you a sum of coin." She knew the Dwarves would take work where they could find it, although she was slightly put-off by it not being Braedan's hand to shape the metal.

Aodhnait's grudging hazel gaze settled on Thorin's dirty hands and his thick ring-laden fingers. They were nice hands, she thought absently, with their hard calloused lines. Perhaps the only nice thing about him.

"Five silver pence."

She looked aghast. "I could buy half a cart-" It was nearly half her coin!

"Take it or leave it," Thorin's intimidating gaze cut her short, suddenly no humor about him. "Dwarvish steel is worth far more than Men's." And she knew the proud and stubborn nature of the Dwarves had come to bite her pockets, although his words were true.

Sullenly, Aodhnait found herself with half the coin she'd brought, watching with forlorn eyes as she dropped the few coins in his waiting hand. He rubbed them between his forefinger and thumb, as if making sure they were silver. It seemed a silly thing to her - - but then again, he _was_ a Dwarf, perhaps he could determine ore hue by feel.

Thorin finally slipped the coins into the purse attached to his thick dwarven made belt, "It will be done before nightfall." This time an ordered dismissal to which she politely ground her teeth, but nodded and turned on her heel.

She did not like Dwarves, as so often said, because of their condescending air.

By the time she returned to the blacksmith her nerves had cooled and her brothers had joined her,_ and_ Braedan had returned - a muscled, if not squat, man. This was also, perhaps, the first time she had come to the blacksmith and the Dwarf named Thorin did not man the forge. If she had not thought Dwarfs loyal to their word, she might have had a sharp tongue because she'd paid him for bearings. Sure enough Braedan had them in Thorin's stead.

"Aye, lassie, the Dwarf's gone for the day - been here since before breakfast - but he left this for you and your brothers. Nice piece o' work, if I say me' self. Now you run along an' give your father me' thanks for the leather!"

Most fortunately for Aodhnait, this was not the last time she would see Thorin, but their next meeting would be far less than pleasant.


	2. Held Back

Chapter 2: Held Back

The brooding sky had never looked so foul as it did that day. Great tumultuous clouds rolled down the Blue Mountains, from across the Great Sea, blackening the first light of the rooster's crow. In the distance across the fields and into the growing woods she could make out the mountain peaks as the clouds were thinner there, capped with snow and ice. She, her brothers and father had awoken in utter darkness to the sound of growing thunder, stumbling to light the fat-lamps. Even the sheep and cattle were put off by the growing storm and ambled about their pens with a chilling nervousness. They could not be put to pasture on such a day. Instead, her brothers started the daunting task of filing the animals into the barn one by one, and left her father to hobble and tie the windows shut.

Aodhnait walked to the chicken-coop on the edge of the cornfields, lantern held shoulder high and a basket in the other arm. The chickens did not cluck as they usually would when she entered with meal and instead huddled close into their nests, feathers puffed and comfortable looking, despite the bloody hot breeze. They guarded their eggs as fiercely as any wyrm, yet relented to her gentle fingers.

A snarl from outside the chicken coop. Squawks and feathers abound; Aodhnait ducked under a hen flapping to the ground in a fury. Her heart pounded and blood rushed to her ears, she barely heard it - - the prowling, the slow, steady, steps.

Horrified, the lantern slipped from her fingers and extinguished on the ground, plunging the coop into darkness. What little pale light that peeked into the coop's cracks blotted slowly by shadow. The panicked chickens covered her gasp as the great beast's shadow stalked slowly the perimeter of the enclosure with great huffing breaths.

Aodhnait's fingers fumbled against the wall for the pitchfork used to clean dirty hay from the ground. She could nearly see the gigantic wolf on the other side through larger cracks; a great blunt head and an immense shoulder height (a head less than her), as lengthy as a horse. And suddenly its eyes bore through the cracks. Glowing yellow orbs, like a demon. A horrible growl in its throat.

The Warg threw itself into the coop, breaking the dense siding with its superior mass. As the boarding broke, creaking and groaning, Aodhnait found the pitchfork. She could do little else than bring it before her - - and in that moment the beast pounced. Her arms shook as the Warg impaled itself upon her weapon with furious howl. Its dread weight threw her to the ground and the evil wolf's great head smacked painfully over her body, dead.

She screamed.

But her scream precursed the farm and the great thunder which rolled above. Great Wargs cackled and Orcs (with their disgusting faces and gruesome appearance) sacked her home. They threw torches into the barn and into the cottage, throwing even more into the corn fields. Aodhnait could see neither hide nor hair of her kin as she struggled free of her opponents weight, only the great red flames like a bonfire rising high into the brooding sky.

The Warg's great skull thumped against the ground, and Aodhnait looked to its snarling maw and light faded eyes. They yet glowed in the dark. Never before a more fearsome beast had she seen.

With a scared heart and no lesser amount of courage, Aodhnait ran towards the flaming barn. For inside the screams and cries of the panicked animals that had found their stalls filled the air with horrible caterwauls. Chaotic lights and the prancing shadows of the villainous Orc Pack danced against the ground, and through some miracle they did not see her sly form.

Her battered hands yanked the back doors of the barn, but they would not budge, the smell of burning flesh and hair in her nostrils. From the other side a great clatter and then a kick to the damaged door. Bessie broke through the panels which swung open with a great bang and lightly burned as the hay beneath the horse's hooves caught fire. Aodhnait scrambled to the frightened beast and clambered upon her, hands grasping the soot covered mane and feeling each breath Bessie took.

The horse barely waited for her digging heels, and took off at a gallop. Lesser sheep and cows brayed away from the flames and tried to find safe passage. The Warg's gaping maw's eagerly awaited and hurled before Aodhnait's gait.

And beyond this she saw the Orc leader, sitting high upon a great black Warg.

And in the air his foul voice cried like the storm, "Ee r'hir'a erd'a!" and those around him roared their pleasure. She did not know what he said in mangled Black-Speech, but it sounded dreadful. Then Bessie was beyond their sight, charging into the lit cornfield. [1]

But the Warg, ever watchful, caught her scent and howled.

Aodhnait clutched the bareback mare below her with ridged white fingers. The mare's wild wounded gallop had even she at a sweat, each horrible rasping snort of Bessie becoming more and more faint, each contraction of the horse's body rolling into hers with less painful waves. The woman's head fell forwards and fought to jerk up, battling off that blackness that crept towards her with each passing second, but what she wouldn't give to sink into sleep for it felt like days had passed in hours.

Behind her, the farm, the Warg, and the Orc Pack. She had never thought the old mare to have this much fight in her, to travel on this long with the terrifying howls growing ever closer. Aodhnait knew the draft horse would run herself to death, as it frothed at the mouth and blood sprayed from its nostrils, but at least that was a better death than the teeth filled maws and swords awaiting - - the terror, not so much, but that would come either way.

Ahead nestled in the rolling hills a small river, and with one great heaving stride the horse jumped from the shore and into the deep middle waters. Before her the great curtains of rain drew near, as behind her did the Wargs. But they would not follow into the river, so it was when Aodhnait's steed reached the other side her scent would be lost to them as overhead a great clap of thunder came and the downpour started.

The river had long passed behind her now, and the sheets of rain became thin. No road in sight, only the rolling hills leading to the mountain base and the sparse trees which grew in ever greater thickets.

Suddenly Bessie neighed. The wounded beast slid and reared nearly throwing Aodhnait, screaming in the tongue of the horse Aodhnait did not know, only that she clung to Bessie for dear life. A harsh voice shouted a command and three other voices followed and Bessie stomped the ground, and Aodhnait's eyes squeezed shut with all the force she could muster as hands tried to take hold of the horse which had no trappings or saddle. She sickened as the horse kicked round and round; Bessie's panting thick, her legs wobbling, hide wet with sweat. With a final long-pitched sound, the beast collapsed to its side the taut muscles under Aodhnait's hands went slack. The beast still breathed, but madly.

Aodhnait could do no more. Her mind was tired and her body pained, but her death grasp did not loosen when hands tried to turn her.

"Nooo!" she howled in anguish like some dying beast. Bessie was all Aodhnait had; she would not part from her.

"Stand back, lad!" The hands that tentatively touched were replaced by stronger hands like bands of steel lifting and prying. Aodhnait shrieked in outrage and swung her fist 'round, meeting flesh with a crack. A curse and an exclamation went up, but the hands had not relented - - she turned.

Dwarves. Four dwarves - - but her roving eyes found one she knew, latched onto, the only one still upon a pony. He had the audacity to look mildly surprised as he recognized Aodhnait from weeks before at the blacksmithing forge. He donned a heavy cloak of wolf fur, his black pony stomping and startled in the drizzle.

Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror; King Under the Mountain.

Her headache grew ten-fold; dizzy and vision-dimmed, she fainted.

* * *

Aodhnait pressed into the warmth wrapped about her awkwardly, fumbling with her blanket. Had it not been for the hard ground beneath her, she may have thought the happenings of the last day null. Voices paused at her movement, but when she did not move again they continued to the crackling camp fire and the puffs of sweet pipeweed. The utterly foreign speech, heavy and like none other echoed 'bout the clearing. Khuzdul, the secret language of the Dwarves. She had never heard the tongue before, but the sounds were oddly thrilling. Aodhnait swallowed thickly, and wet her dry lips, wishing to lay there forever, until the Dwarves thought her dead and went away. It was not 'til some sharp command in a voice she recognized did the days earlier events unfold.

"You're a long way from home," Thorin's low voice said, confirming he knew she woke.

Slowly but surely, Aodhnait righted, clutching the borrowed cloak about her close, not certain what she would find.

They sat on old bark stripped logs around the flickering fire, the two youngest across from her - - and it struck her then how oddly young they looked, for she could not remember ever seeing a Dwarf younger than perhaps Thorin's-looking age (however old he may be) and how disturbingly similar they both looked to him. The one had his face although his hair shone like dirty gold in the camp light and his cool blue eyes held a twinkle of laughter which Thorin readily oppressed; his braided moustache had decorative silver clasps as well as his hair - - woven with tight twine before and behind the ears. The other looked less similar to Thorin besides his dark unbraided hair, his face more angular in comparison but still considerably handsome; his eyes like mirthful copper and his beard just beginning to grow - - a young Dwarf indeed. The first had a heavy wolf-fur cloak, the other only leather, but they shared a wooden pipe between them as readily as brothers.

A different Dwarf turned, the closest seated to her. She had never found Dwarfs intimidating before, but this one struck a fear deep inside her for his monstrous size comprised mainly of budging scarred muscle the like of which she'd never seen. Surrounding his great inked bald head a tufted-mane of roan and a long pronged beard mustache fell before his great dwarvish nose and tangled underneath straps across his chest. His eyes were wary and narrow, the color of fresh coal. He looked at Aodhnait with impressive mistrust (Aodhnait was just a girl, after all), almost palpable in the little space between them. His shoulders rolled lightly, drawing her gaze to the shaggy fur and weapons surrounding him; he audibly cracked his brass covered knuckles and leaned towards her on spread knees.

"What's your name, lass?" he asked, his Khuzdul accent so heavy his common-tongue sounded more like a drunken slur. The fire-shadow upon his face made it a scowl.

"Ah, lay off Dwalin, you will scare her!" the brown-haired one laughed from across the fire. As Dwalin turned to pointedly tell off the younger Dwarf Aodhnait could see his mangled ear - - her heart hammered.

"She scared _us_ half to death with that charging horse - - ah' think we deserve an explanation."

"Dwalin is right," Thorin drew their gaze, but his invasive stare only found Aodhnait. He cradled his own wood pipe in his hands, slowly snuffing the embers. With his arms clasped in thick metal-embroidered bracers, his body dressed in fine Dwarvish mail and fresh dark tunic, she could nearly see him for a King. His eyes compelled her for reasons unknown to answer, as if aware of things she was not.

"I-I am Aodhnait, daughter of Sloan - - the farmer and hide-maker." Her voice cracked. All fire that had possessed her when first speaking to Thorin at the blacksmith had left, leaving her terrified and childlike. She trembled under the watchful eyes, their curiosity half veiled. "Orcs and _evil_ wolves, from the wilds-" was all she could manage. Tears would come if finished.

"The horse's haunch is wounded by teeth," the brunette supplied across the fire as the other drew from the pipe, pale eyes shifting.

"Orcs?" Dwalin shifted uneasily, his strange square boots digging in the rich forest soil. "What business do Orcs have this far west?"

"To rape and pillage," Thorin stood and strode to the edge of the trees, his malcontent voice low and restrained. "The deal evil does best in this world." The Dwarf stood for a while, looking out into the lowland before the mountain, in the dark where such creatures gathered, a King of all he surveyed, seeing beyond the midnight void and into a past Aodhnait did not know. Thunder clapped in the distance.

"Will we hunt them?" the blonde inquired with the force of his youth.

His brother paused, looking to their father (she presumed). "We can't allow goblins to run unchecked," his body tensed with an excitement Aodhnait could not relate to.

Inside, her heart burned, red hot, with the kin of fright. Shaken by the events, sickened by the sights. Aodhnait would have willingly given anything she possessed to turn back time.

Thorin's gaze slid back to them, feet deviating around the fire, hands clasped behind the back. He stood above Aodhnait then, and with his aplomb gaze upon her crown asked, "What is it _you_ desire? Will you cower here or return to your home?"

Cower? Did he think she willingly ran from her home, willingly abandoned her father and brothers? That she wouldn't have taken up a sword or axe, if she had been able? A fire rose to her cheeks, incensed, her fear enveloped away in flame. Taken again by that strange anger the Dwarf's persona evoked.

"Do you presume I wouldn't?! It is _my_ home, _my _duty." She pushed the green cloak from her, baring mars on her exposed skin. It was fitting that the fire made her auburn hair of the same color. Aodhnait glared, seeing the spark in Thorin's eyes. She did not like it, nearly as much as she did not like him. She stood. Her height over Thorin was agreeable, but his unyielding will was not for before it she still felt small. "I may only be a farmer, but I will still fight!"

"It's settled then," Dwalin's great metal-clad hand enclosed her clenched fist, startling her with its heat and force. He jerked her back down to the makeshift bed. His hard gaze seemed softer then, but yet stern. "At first light."

Her stomach dropped, but glared yet still at Thorin Oakenshield. He simpered minutely in passing thought. She felt as if he had proven something known only to him.

"We're going Orc hunting!" the two across the fire perked, laughing freely.

"Ah ha! An adventure! _How many do you'll suppose we'll kill?_"

Thorin's gaze turned to them, much to Aodhnait's relief.

"_We_ shall be going, _you two_ will return home."

Dwalin barked out a chuckle as their elation deflated and into horror.

"But, we are old enough to come with!" the blonde objected freely.

The other whined at the same time, "But, _Uncle! _We are _skilled_ fighters!_"_

Young for Dwarves indeed.

At first light they woke to crisp skies. Aodhnait dreaded what was to be seen. Bessie, the old draft-horse, had survived, her wounded leg shallower than Aodhnait first thought. Although sore, she mounted the poor horse bareback as Dwalin and Thorin mounted theirs, abet with trappings. The two brothers, irritable to be sent back to hide behind their mother's dress turned towards the looming mountains.

"How far the ride, lass?" Dwalin asked. His pony nickered lightly and shook its head. The Dwarf's suspicious attitude had not lessened, although he seemed to accept Aodhnait at her word. Dwalin had given her the cloak (the blanket); she was thankful for the night had been chilly at best and frost laid the ground white like spider silk.

"A few hours, I am unsure. I have never been to the mountain base."

"The horse will find its way," Thorin held his pony's reins with one hand, and held them as if it were the noblest of steeds; the pony sidled besides hers, and Thorin nodded for her to go on.

Hours past until they saw smoke on the horizon, and closer yet, rising above the cornfields ominously like a snake.

"Hya!" Aodhnait exclaimed, tapping Bessie's flanks and gripping the horse's mane. She cantered, overtaking the ponies whose short legs were unable to keep pace.

The corn had burned in the night, yet part yet stood from forgiving rain, the great stalks consumed. Distantly, she thought the Dwarves ordered her to slow, and yet her pounding heart would not allow it. Aodhnait's home came into view at the bottom of the dale. Its remains at least. The great barn smoldered as did the cottage, timber frames standing like the great skeletons of sea beasts. A horrible stench of singed hair and flesh caught on the wind and Bessie would go no further, rearing lightly and snorting with each tap of Aodhnait's heel.

"Papa!" she called out, "Dwirnach! Ardis!"

She slid from Bessie and ran down the hillside, through shrubs of hazel and aeglos, which bloomed with white flowers and filled the air with sweet smells. Below her no sign of the Wargs or Orcs, just the desolation caused in their passing.

Thorin and Dwalin caught her halfway down the hill, their ponies unperturbed by awful smells, passing to the cottage. Thorin's mount neighed loudly and Thorin made a halting motion with his arm. Aodhnait could not understand. Refused to. His hard eyes looked past him and to something she could not yet see.

"Keep her away!" Thorin demanded. She did not like his tone, her heart jumping. His mount stomped.

Aghast and nearing the edge of the cottage, Dwalin's strong grasp promptly caught her about the middle. She already knew what it was beyond her gaze.

"It is not a sight for gentle women," the great bearded Dwarf told her solemnly.

"No!" Aodhnait cried out and struggled. Surely, a jest! Aodhnait knew she fought against him bravely, strongly, but Dwalin held her back, although without heart. Finally as Dwalin half-dragged her away, she broke, and a strangled lament escaped her chest, as if in denial.

Thorin's gaze followed her, his thick brows furrowed and lips pressed to a thoughtful frown. He dismounted, and his thick hand patted the pony away. His ring-laden fingers undid the heavy belt at his waist and shed his tunic.

"Dwalin, a spade."

And that was the last Aodhnait saw of the Dwarves until late day, hearing only the sound of soil dug from the ground, the hefting of weight, the soil placed back down. Only then did she dare round the cottage.

They paused, brows heavy with sweat in the sun. Thorin breathed heavily and quickly through his nose, sharp eyes tracing her face, strands of his thick hair falling forwards and sticking to his skin.

"Turn back," the Dwarf bid her with a hard voice. "It is not yet done."

How could he be so distant and yet caring at the same time? He spurned her for running at first meeting, and now burried her family, three graves in all. Aodhnait looked at the deep dug graves and lightly shook her head. She griped his shovel, yet he held it strong.

"This isn't your burden," she said softly, with no hint of displeasure, grateful for his thoughtfulness, but avoided his piercing gaze. "They are my father and brothers."

His grip loosened and finally she met his gaze. She saw an understanding in his far away eyes as he relented the spade. Thorin nodded and stepped back. With a hard face, Aodhnait pierced the pile of dark soil, and pausing, began to fill the hole.

"So be it."

* * *

[1] Ee r'hir'a erd'a: "Burn it all down."

Thank you everyone who favorited, alerted, and reviewed for the story! Special thanks to forgottenchangeling, 1607hannah, and mamkm for taking the time to write words of encouragement. I am trying to update weekly, but it may take longer because I'm trying to have longer word counts than the first chapter :) As always reviews are appreciated, and please point out any lore errors you find! My next chapter should be posted on the 26th, as I've managed to write most of it already!


	3. Two Lines

Chapter 3: Two Lines

"Nunavut is two days from here yet." Dwalin and Thorin thought themselves out of her hearing range (she presumed). They spoke in low voices as they dealt Aodhnait's fate - - also presuming she would heed to them, that is. They stood side by side, backs turned from her and her digging. Aodhnait had torn precious white flowers of aeglos from their dense branches and laid them on the graves.

The Dwarf-King looked across the hills, resting his thick knuckles upon his sturdy dwarven axe. "We have little supplies. The Orcs came that way." The concerning _we _only applied to them, she knew.

Dwalin did as well. "We cannot leave her to her own means. The Orcs will return, and in greater numbers to carry off what they can."

They planned to send Aodhnait back to the town of Men where Thorin had found work, Nunavut. A good solid plan - - she could easily understudy Braedan in the smithy; he would take her as one of his own - - and then acquire a large portion of land as she was its only living heir. If not there, there were the inns, and the pubs, and the outlaying farms. All looked for sturdy hands in a growing village. She had no say with the Dwarves, not that she particularly wanted to be around Dwarves to begin with. They had been kind enough to help her in need.

However, their plan didn't take into account her feelings. She did not want to go to Nunavut. Aodhnait wanted _reprisal_. What revenge would come from Nunavut? They had no claim to her families farmstead - - _stead_, which basely means another's. They had no fear of Orcs, whose numbers could not assault a town so large. She knew at least the Dwarves were no friend to Orcs, something she thought Thorin believed her capable of, because he offered her the choice.

"I am standing here, you know." She finally said, when their listless mutters became too much to bear.

If it surprised either Dwarf it did not show in their deadpanned expressions, they merely looked at her with chary and reluctant eyes.

"I will not go to Nunavut," Aodhnait stated simply. "I have no home here and no home in Nunavut, but I shall not cower." Thorin's lips drew to the side and pinched in a painful looking manner at her mockery of his words. She knew this did not please him. It mattered little to her. "You have came this far with me."

"Are all men folk's women so presumptuous?" Dwalin muttered, a stagnant distrust in his voice still apparent, for she was not a Dwarf and that set them apart.

"Are _you?"_ She asked Dwalin in return, feeling her face flush. Her hands balled slightly.

"Enough." Thorin cut between them- - Dwalin immediately quiet and Aodhnait following after. He sized her then, with far harder eyes than he had at the blacksmith, or even the day before under the camp-light. "Do you not think being with your own is your best course?"

"They will not go after the Orcs!" she finally said, scowling brightly against the evening sun. "They have no care for what has happened here. It will be news to them, and foul, but no news they need pray heed to because they do not struggle in a town so large as theirs."

"And why should the Dwarves _pray heed_ to this?" Thorin asked her bluntly and with no small amount of callousness in his rich voice.

And that brought Aodhnait up short, and she realized that she _had _been presumptive, for this hard-hearted king before her showed no concern that she might be hurt or upset in his actions. He had showed her a kindness by taking her home and burying her kin, but that would be where his kindness ended. Her lip quivered in that moment, until she bit it back.

Thorin watched this all with a quiet dignity, taking in the woman's tangled auburn hair and dainty flushed cheeks.

"For you of Erebor are a broken yet proud people," it was the only thing she could think. "I am now a broken yet proud person, Master Dwarf."

"Do you even know to whom you speak of Erebor, lass?" The large warrior scoffed besides his king. Perhaps he felt as if Aodhnait had insulted Thorin with her bold tongue, for Dwalin held Thorin in the highest respects. "He is Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, heir to Erebor's throne. "

Aodhnait grimaced and reddened instead of the shock and surprise Dwalin sought to place on her dirtied face. She had thought to say _'He has no mountain now,' _but there was a time and place for every piece of mind she would lay down. She settled for, "I've been aware of that since I commissioned him to fix a wagon wheel in Nunavut, Master _Dwalin_."

Dwalin gave a gruff "harrumph," and the broad arms crossed over his chest flexed as if he had half a mind to take back the cloak he'd lent her or threaten her with that pointy piece of weaponry on his back.

She tried to give her greatest smile back, but it came with a certain twist of haughtiness.

"And how did you come to know me?" The dark haired Thorin asked with displeasure, which redirected Aodhnait to her current situation.

She had enough sense to be embarrassed then, and perhaps _that _modesty helped her more than anything she could have said. "You looked different than the other Dwarves I'd seen in Nunavut before," she offered as an uptight mutter. "You held yourself differently."

And even now, he did. He looked as if he held the weight of the world upon his broad shoulders, a weary countenance that hinted at shadows beneath the stony eyes and the reason gray wisps had formed in his otherwise well maintained mane. He did not look like Dwalin, who had something attainable to strive for - - for what Thorin coveted took heavy toll on his will and bearing.

"And you find this all in a look?" He sounded more displeased than before, his voice a low (intimidating) rumble.

Daunted, Aodhnait swallowed thickly. Why was she trying to convince him anyway, this horrible little Dwarf-King?

"You Dwarves trade for food, don't you? You trade your work, and your pretty trinkets, and your iron, and your gold, and your gems." She tried changing the subject, not liking the feelings his question had brought up inside her, the lengths she'd gone to learn his name. If she could not win Thorin's aid through grievance, she would win it through her usefulness. "There is still plenty food here and it is _my_ land now."

Thorin grimaced, but listened, nor did he deny her words.

"_Heed,_ if you help me find my vengeance on the Orcs I will work for you, but as your ward." They would not have to trade for food nor work for it, she would give it _freely _under their protection.

"Too far from Ered Luin," the great Dwarf King might as well have spat on her offer. "We cannot protect what is so far away." Refused to, more like.

"If not here, then let me drive the cattle and sheep to the mountain!" Aodhnait spat back, furious. "Or would you like me to drive them up your stubborn, Dwarvish, arse!?"

His face contorted and burnt a color of red Aodhnait had only seen while he worked the forge. She crossed a line. His brows furrowed and his lips curled.

Had it not been for the muffled guffaws which carried from the fields of corn his anger would have smashed upon her like the waves of a turbulent sea against cliffs. His attention, again, redirected, with much thanks from Aodhnait.

"Fili! Kili!" Thorin roared, his stony expression broken with cracks of stern censure.

Stealth was not a strong suite of Dwarves, Aodhnait vaguely thought, as Thorin's two nephews slowly slunk from the wall of green, caught. Their laughs died immediately under Thorin's furious gaze. They too, had enough sense to appear modest before their angry uncle, trying to seem as little and puny as possible under that righteous gaze. If she held any like for Dwarves, these two she would _love_ for at least _they _saw the sense in her insult.

"I told you to return to the Mountains!" Thorin's glare did she pity upon them, for it was partly her doing. "Why are you here; answer!"

"Uncle," the blonde who looked more similar to Thorin in facial features (for his nose was very long), stepped forwards. And at that moment Aodhnait knew that their similarities ran deep in blood, for his way of speaking and his restrained bearing. "We are old enough to hunt goblins! You cannot hide us away in the mountains forever like women." His brother nodded beside him.

But Thorin proved a calculating, discontent Dwarf. "Did it not occur to you two that you were sent home not because of age, but because of travel size? A group of three is less likely to be spotted than a group of five." His voice roughened with anger and stripped of pity, which both younglings took with embarrassed and smarted looks. "And that you are the last of the line of Durin?! All three of us cannot enter danger at the same time!" Aodhnait felt as if she were listening to something secret not meant for her ears.

Their heads bowed with shame, realizing their uncle spoke true, their faces in set grimaces. Yet they were young Dwarves full of adventure, (perhaps reminding himself of his youth) and so Thorin showed them pity with a great sigh, and with it his anger settled to a stony irritation which turned back to the woman before him.

Aodhnait swallowed, tense.

"And you," he came to stand before her, still managing to make her feel small although she stood tall. His steely gaze held a great patience, even when his voice did not, simmering with insult. "You have no place among Dwarves. Collect what you can from here and we shall leave."

Aodhnait's hands curled into soft fists, although her throat felt tight. Thorin pushed past her none too gently, his shoulder knocking heavily against her arm. Dwalin followed after Thorin, with little a glance for her and without the pushiness, his low timber rising as well. She would not look behind her, no matter how much she wished to listen to their mumbled breaths. But she knew he was right. She couldn't possibly fit among the Dwarves. She swallowed again, but the tight sensation in her throat worsened.

Before her three graves, but her grieving would wait.

The barn and cottage had been sacked. What hadn't burned had been looted, and the wood around her creaked with a foreboding sound, weakened. Her room had survived most of the fire, and into her father's singed bags she packed clothes and food. Her brother's hunting knife was found, along with a few small mementos. The knife slid easily into her boot, and at that moment, she felt eyes upon her.

Aodhnait jerked to face Thorin's nephews as one cleared his throat.

"Can I help you?" she snappishly asked and then regretted it. She wasn't mad at them. She apologized.

"Fili," said the blonde, "and Kili," said the brunette, "at your service."

"Uncle asked us to help you along," the dark haired one said, and after a moment his brother's proud figure strode into the room and shouldered what bags she'd been able to pack. They seemed quite small, Aodhnait thought, as the charred ceiling vaulted high overhead, but what they lacked in height they made up with a stocky bulk. "This must'a been a nice place," the brunette continued, motioning at the cottage.

Wiping her soot covered hands across her wool leggings, Aodhnait straightened and smiled sadly. "My pa built it with his own hands. It was nice enough."

The blonde elbowed his brother and said something sharp. Aodhnait was unsure what passed between them until looking alarmed the brunette bowed sharply at the waist, his unruly hair sliding forth. "My apologies! I mean you no grief for your loss!"

"Don't mind his waggling tongue," the blonde chaffed, "he doesn't know when to stop talking."

"Neither do you," Kili shot back, rising to glare at the now smirking blonde with hardened brows on his otherwise innocent face.

"Aye," Fili's braided mustache quirked, "but at least I know how to use _my_ tongue." And he proceeded to make a _very_ lewd gesture at his brother with his waggling tongue and two parted fingers against his lips. Aodhnait's jaw dropped as she gasped at the shamelessness of the act and Kili's face flushed a horrible shade of scarlet.

"There's a lady present!" he squawked like any young man new to this kind of teasing. His outburst sounded like he tried to save himself more than her.

Aodhnait wasn't sure herself, but a timid smile lit her flushed cheeks at the chuckle escaping Fili's lips as he clasped Kili round his shoulders. Aodhnait's brothers were not a playful lot, with her, at least… but then Aodhnait knew she should not refer to them in a present tense and the newly opened wound struck deep. Her eyes watered and her throat ached anew, quickly diverting her eyes from the Dwarves and back to her task with a painful hitch.

"Are you alright?" Kili asked, and she heard the Fili elbow him again in reprimand. No, things weren't alright, but she could not blame the Dwarves, for at least they offered a curious sympathy. Dwarves knew loss.

"I'm fine," she managed with a surprisingly straight voice. She blinked her hazel eyes harshly and swallowed thickly, willing the thoughts to go away. It was easy to think of this cottage as just any other cottage, the memories in her head as any other. She put on a smile before facing the pair, who looked unconvinced. "Let me go to the barn and see if I can find a saddle."

They followed her resolutely. The barn had faired the worst, being filled with dry hay. The smell of death thickened here from the burned animals that had been unable to escape the barn. Aodhnait gagged, apparent that she would find no saddle there.

Bessie was slowly lured with a few choice clicks of her tongue and oats. The horse still uneasy of the smell lingering in the air but becoming more trustful as Aodhnait remained. With unneeded help from the younger Dwarves, she slung the bags upon the horses flanks and tied them loosely, just enough to ensure they would not fall.

Thorin and Dwalin still took council, looking towards she and the brothers; they leaned close, their eyes but glances of information. Aodhnait avoided Thorin's gaze for his words yet stung, and stripped her of any hopeful retribution.

"You should not have threatened his backside," Fili's tenor snapped her from dour musings. He and Kili had readily laughed at her outburst before, but their now politely serious countenances told of their respect for Thorin.

She felt now a little respect for him after the days events, but certain it only included his integrity. He somehow managed to press her emotions until the bubbled forth like a deep-water spring from rock. Kili's hands graciously gave her a boost up onto the draft horse. Her burning, aching, thighs felt as if they could not clench to keep her upon her mount and she patted Bessie's neck until the horse nickered appreciatively.

"Uncle has a lot on his mind," Kili offered in Fili's stead. He had this disbelieving air about him, thinking back on what Aodhnait had said - - but when she too thought long about it, not often people talked about driving things up a king's arse to their face without loosing tongue to knife.

"He deserved it," she muttered to herself.

"Aye, maybe; but look where it got you." Fili swung himself upon his own pony, whose back only came to Bessie's low sides; they made a minuscule pair.

"Fili, Kili, return with Dwalin to the Blue Mountains." Thorin left no room for doubt, question, or contradiction in his low timbre. The brother's held their chagrin well, if they felt it, but Aodhnait knew their disappointment would be rebuked by Thorin's now stern gaze upon them. "And you, woman," he said, addressing Aodhnait, who was beginning to wonder if he even remembered she _had_ a name. "We move for Nunavut."

What scandal, for her to travel _alone_ with him. He was no kin of hers, and Nunavut took two days by the road to reach. Aodhnait shifted uneasily in her perch. Somehow, it seemed more dangerous to be alone with him than it had traveling with both him _and_ Dwalin, but that too seemed scandalous, a lone woman traveling with men she didn't know. She'd be lucky if Braedan didn't turn her away.

But she acquiesced to Thorin stoically. She had no choice in the matter. The bits of food she's scrounged would work well enough for both their rations, and it was split easier between two than five - - even she had heard of Dwarves voracious appetites.

After saying their goodbye's, and with a good hard cuff to each Kili and Fili for having followed in the first place, Thorin took lead ahead of her. Aodhnait looked back at the farmstead when they reached the top of the dale, the ember home she'd once known, burning its image into her eyes, wondering if she'd ever see it again. And then slowly, methodically, Bessie meandered after Thorin's pony, and her old home slid from sight.

When she turned forwards, Aodhnait startled to catch Thorin's smoldering gaze upon her. He did not look away. Perhaps he expected to see tears in her hazel eyes, or expected her to lash out verbally at him again. The afternoon breeze ruffled his thick hair and the wolf fur about his sturdy shoulders, his sturdy hands grasping the pony's reins tight. She would not give the Dwarf the satisfaction of her emotions, mortaring them behind thick mental walls.

"Don't lag behind," he ordered after Aodhnait broke their connected stare. Her teeth grit, and her sore legs clenched Bessie's ribs, tangling fingers in the horse's mane.

Had she not been so hesitant with reading Thorin, she would have noticed the grim acceptance of her disposition in his steely eyes.

It's not quite as long as I'd liked, but it will do for now. Things between she and Thorin (oo-lala) will pick up in the next chapter, lots and lots of interaction and Aodhnait's thinking on him. :D I'm not sure if it makes any amount of sense for Fili and Kili to appear and then disappear again, but it seemed like a very Fili/Kilish thing for them to do. I've had so much trouble just staying focused on Thorin (he's my favorite) for I like Fili, Kili, Dwalin, and Bofur too much for my own good. Bofur and Dwalin aren't exactly as handsome as Durin's line, but I love the way the movies portray them.

Thank you for all the new favorites and alerts! Special thanks to UKReader, PS (guest), and the lovely 1607hannah for their encouraging reviews! Next chapter to be out on the 3rd!


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